


Bits from Hawaii Five-0

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Steve, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve, but he gets hugs and attention (and paperweights) so he'll be okay, mostly just beating up on Steve, sad Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-05-25 05:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14970554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Bit and pieces from my Hawaii Five-0 sandbox that weren't long enough to be their own things (generally ~1k or less).Most of it will be Steve-centric H/C.1. Tag to 4x09. Soon after Deb visits for Thanksgiving, Steve calls out sick; Danny goes to check on him. They have a non-conversation.2. Tag to 8x10. Danny's been shot. Steve waits for him to wake up.3. Tag to 6x25. Lou is a thoughtful, if perplexing, gift-giver, and Steve gets emotionally attached to a paperweight.4. Snippet from season 6. The "Uncle Steve" stocking makes its first appearance.5. Snippet (set whenever). Steve's got a concussion and Jerry's on bedside duty.6. Tag to 8x19. After finally booking Davis, Steve needs company. He and Danny eat some cheese and talk a little.





	1. tag to 4x09

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag to 4x19. Soon after Deb visits for Thanksgiving, Steve calls out sick; Danny goes to check on him. They have a non-conversation.

To be fair, Steve does actually look sick. He’s pale but pretty flushed too, like he’s been printed by a printer running out of all inks but red (or magenta, or whatever you call it). His hair’s fluffy, like he hasn’t showered.  

“Hey,” Danny says, elbowing his way inside. The tv’s on, muted, and there’s a blanket on the sofa.

“Hey,” Steve rasps, shutting the door. “We catch a case?”

“I woulda called if we’d caught a case.”

“Okay.” Steve sinks into the sofa. “What’s up?”

“What’s up? What’s up is I came to check on you.”

“Oh. I’m good, buddy, thanks.”

“You’re good? You don’t look good.”

“Eh, ‘m fine. Caught a stomach bug or something, or maybe I ate, y’know, something funky. It’s easin’ up, in the last hour or two.”

“Oh.”

“Why oh?”

“Just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a sick day before.”

Steve shrugs. “I mean, if it’s a— if it’s a viral thing, I didn’t wanna come spread it around.”

“Right. Sure.” He feels himself cross his arms. “Viral thing.”

Steve sits back and pulls his feet onto the sofa, legs to his chest; his chin drops to his knees and he sighs. “Don’t start holdin’ back now, Danno.”

Danny huffs. “Right. Just. Stoic Steve, y’know, you take a sick day for the first time after you get some bad, uh, some bad family news—” his voice started out normal but he feels it peter out a little now. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Huh?

Now it’s Steve’s turn to _oh_. He puts his legs back down, stiffly. 

“Thanks, man. That’s— thanks. I really am sick, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Cooked Mary’s hairdryer turkey yesterday and maybe I, uh, shouldn’t‘ve.” He wrinkles his nose, rubs at his stomach. “You wanna stick around for a bit I’m sure I can prove it to you.”

“Yeah, that won’t be necessary. I just— I just wanted to check.”

“You’re the best, Danno.” He catches Danny’s eyes, smiles that stupidly earnest smile of his. “But listen, man, it might not be the turkey, might be contagious. You’d better bounce.”

“Okay. I’ll, uh, leave you to it, then. You need anything from the pharmacy or anything?”

“Nah. Thanks.”

“‘kay. You want a hug?”

Steve wrinkles his nose again. “Yeah, no, buddy, think I’d definitely need a shower first.”

“I could stay, if you wanted. Kinda sucks being sick alone.”

“I’m fine, Danny, honestly. I’ve just been sleeping, y’know, staying horizontal.”

“Okay. Go horizontal, babe. You do kinda look like shit. You need a trash can or something?”

Steve snorts and shakes his head. 

“Text me if you need anything.”

“You hate texting.”

“‘s better than hearing your pathetic sick-voice.”

“Right.” Steve tips sideways and curls up on the sofa, dragging the blanket over his legs. “Yeah, ‘m sure I don’t sound too great right now.”

“Not so much,” Danny confirms, watching Steve hug one arm around his belly, use the other hand to fussily knead his forehead. Okay, fine, he’s sick. This is a real sick day.

Which is not to say the Deb thing isn’t hitting him, isn’t something Danny thinks they’ll probably have to deal with sooner rather than later.

And believe it or not, Steve might agree.

“Danno?”

Danny looks back, finds Steve smiling tiredly from his sideways lounge of the sofa. He’s tugged the blanket up higher.

“Maybe, when ‘m feelin’ better, you could, like, buy me a beer?”

Danny pulls a face at him. “Has there been a week in the last four years I didn’t?”

The smile becomes a grin. “Your memory’s not the best, buddy. But hey. Thanks for checkin’ on me.”

“Sure thing, babe.”

Sooner rather than later. And as Danny lets himself out he wonders if maybe Steve won’t fight it as hard as he’d assumed.


	2. tag to 8x10

It’s late. Even Eric’s been dragged out, bullied by the others into food and sleep, but nobody’s dared to try this on Steve. They’ve gotten him a water bottle and left him at Danny’s side.

And now it’s just a waiting game.

The surgery went well. No reason to think he won’t wake up, won’t make a full recovery—no reason except that he _hasn’t_ woken up yet. And Steve kind of can’t take it anymore.

Maybe he’s finally too old for this. Ten years ago—fuck it, three years ago—he could have taken anything the world could throw at him. No need for decompression, reaction, release.

That’s not so much the case now.

Danny almost died; Danny still won’t wake up; and hunched up in a plastic chair at the side of his bed, Steve draws a deep, quivery breath, and goes ahead and lets himself cry.

And Danny comes-to, then. Of course. He blinks up at Steve, or maybe the wall behind him, with a dizzy, half-stupid expression. 

“Hey,” Steve grunts, thanking every god ever. He turns away and scrubs his face, and when he looks back Danny doesn’t seem to have noticed, thankfully. 

Or, maybe not. 

Danny works to focus his eyes— which is actually a funny thing to watch, a grown man willing his eyes not to cross— and finally he locks onto Steve’s face. “Hey,” he slurs. “You— cryin’? Why’re’y’u— Stee’?”

“Hey, for once in your life, be quiet, okay?” Steve leans forward, pats Danny on the cheek. “You got shot. You need to rest.”

Danny coughs a little, waves his hand, but doesn’t relent. “D’n b’sad, Stevie. ‘sokay. ‘mokay.”

“I’m not sad, buddy. Why you worried about me?”

“Cryin’,” Danny Insists, reaching a hand out again. “‘M not cryin’. Stevie. Don’ cry.”

In that stupid fucking way in which emotions work, all of this has brought fresh tears to Steve’s eyes. He ducks his head, blinking them free. “Sorry, buddy,” he croaks, voice sticking. “You scared me.”

A hand flops clumsily against his head and Steve laughs with unsteady lungs as Danny drags his fingers over Steve’s close-shorn hair.  

“Jesus, I hope you don’t remember this,” he huffs, scrubbing his eyes. 

“Mm. I don’ r’mber nothin’,” Danny sighs. And maybe it’s just that he seems stoned enough he really won’t remember, or maybe it’s that Steve just can’t hold the weight of it all one moment more, but whatever the reason he brings a hand to his face and weeps freely. Danny coos, pats his head. 

“D’n’,” he breaths. “D’n cry. I love you. I love you, Stevie.”

“‘Sgot me really screwed up, buddy,” Steve chokes. “Don’t do that again.”

“S’y please,” Danny scolds, and Steve bursts out laughing, this ugly wet laugh that makes Danny giggle. 

“Please,” Steve sobs.

“G’boy. No, I won’t— I won’t do it ‘gain. I won’t. Okay? Y’okay, Stevie? You— you done cryin’, now?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“‘s a lie. ‘sokay. Pu’ y’r head down, babe. Look, th’r’s room.” He waves vaguely at an empty patch of mattress, between his hip and the edge. “Pu’ y’r head down. I love you.”

So Steve does; he rests his head at Danny’s side and tries to breathe slowly; feels his tears soaking into the cotton, feels Danny brushing over his head again. 

His hand is heavy. But it’s warm and surprisingly steady too, and the heart monitor is beeping a near-normal rhythm. 

Danny’s okay. He’s _actually okay_. 

Steve sniffles a little, then gives up on dignity and uses the collar of his t-shirt to soak up the snot.

Danny’s _okay_.

There’s a kind of scrubbing at his head, then, like Danny’s trying to rub his hair and is momentarily not realizing that he doesn’t really have any. Steve laughs, lifts his head.

Danny meets his eyes with so much love and fondness he thinks his heart might explode.

“Stevie,” he murmurs. “Y’done cryin’ now?”

“Yeah, Danno,” Steve says. “All done, buddy.”


	3. tag to 6x25

In an alternate universe, where he and Steve aren’t both laid up simultaneously, Steve is the person Danny would lean on. In this universe it’s Chin. Which isn’t a surprise, really; time was, he was closer to Chin than to Steve, way back when, and he’d still trust the guy with his life. More than his life. He’d trust him with the indelicacies of living, with dry showers and bleeding scabs and _Chin, buddy, this is kind of embarrassing but these pain pills, man, they’ve got me pretty backed up, can you pick me up some Exlax or something next time you come by?_

And the crying, of course. Chin’s collar soaks up flood after flood of Danny’s tears; this lessens after they get discharged, but it doesn’t precisely end.

Chin keeps him sane. Aims those warm, dark eyes right at him, right to his core, and tells him: he’s alive. Steve’s alive.

The hard part, hypothetically, _should_ be over.

*

Who Chin is to Danny, Kono is to Steve.

Steve lies with his head on her shoulder, or in her lap, and listens to her talk: about surfing, about the ocean, about storms rolling in from the horizon. The smell of salt air. This one Christmas morning when she was a little kid, and saw a huge bale of green sea turtles just after sunrise.

Hours pass this way. Danny closes his eyes and drifts along on the waves of her voice; he’s more asleep than awake when the sound of it darkens one afternoon.

“ _E haʻi iaʻu, luna_ ,” she murmurs, interrupting herself. “Talk to me, boss man.”

“I miss my aunt,” Steve whispers, and he goes silent then, but Kono’s gentle hushing tells Danny everything he needs to know about what’s happening over there.

*

And with Chin and Kono where they’ve got to be, everybody else sort of slots into place. Kamekona caters the affair, as he does with all the best tragedies; he even starts bringing plain rice and baked chicken after Kono tells him quietly that Steve can’t really keep down the other stuff just yet.

Max is slightly less helpful. At first he just peers at them and asks overly detailed questions about the recovery process; after a few visits, though, he catches the hint. Shows up with great old sci-fi films instead, provides trivia as they watch together.

Eric watches with them, or cleans when Max isn’t around; he runs interference for Danny’s family back home, too, for which Danny is infinitely grateful. He’s hardly got the energy to keep himself together, let alone prove how kept-together he is to his mom.

And Jerry—God love him, seriously—handles the driving. Not only for Steve and Danny but for Grace and Charlie too, and it’s maybe the third or fourth time that he shows up, shave-ice-sticky kids in tow, without even being asked to bring them over that Danny gets up, gives his children cursory hugs, then absolutely flings his arms around their self-appointed chauffer.

Jerry, for his part, just laughs and hugs Danny against his shoulder. And Danny feels safe, probably for the first time since he looked over and saw the blood on Steve’s hand.

And when _Jerry Ortega_ became one of his closest friends, Danny’s not sure, but he is now, apparently.

*

But in all of this Lou Grover is the biggest surprise.

Because he doesn’t bring food, or meds, or the kids for a visit; he brings—stuff. Things. Items. Apparently the guy has been part crow this whole time because his remedy for liver transplant angst seems to be nothing short of _shiny bits_ , of _here-this-made-me-think-of-you_ ’s.

The first time it happens he brings Danny socks. Like, slipper socks, probably meant for women who put lotion on their heels at night; they’re bright blue, with neon stripes.

Danny puts them on and they more or less stay on for the duration. He’s just lying on the sofa; it’s not like they get dirty.

In the days to come Lou brings him a tiny bell, then a box of jelly fruit slices, then a supermarket crime novel just because it’s set in New Jersey. He works through the fruit slices as his appetite tentatively returns. He reads the book, too, and it’s actually pretty okay; he guesses the bad guy three chapters in, but he doesn’t even mind because of all the casual references to the turnpike and Hoboken and the pork roll/Taylor ham controversy. It makes him homesick, but kind of in a good way.

He brings Steve a seashell, and a matchbox car, and a set of steel dice. Steve’s gracious about all of it, setting it on the end table where he can see it, but he doesn’t really seem affected—until the paperweight.

It’s baseball-sized, made of clear, blemishless glass. In the center are two sleek glass dolphins, of swirled, translucent blues and teals.

Steve falls in love with the paperweight; there’s no other way to describe it. He spins it in his fingers, holds it up to the light, falls asleep with it cradled to his chest because of course Steve McGarrett would make a glass sphere into a proxy stuffed animal. If he’s not holding it, it’s somewhere in the blankets around him. He smoothes his thumb across it now and then; Danny’s not even sure that he knows he’s doing it.

The paperweight drops one time, rolls away across the floor. Danny’s more ambulatory than not, now, so he goes and gets it; it radiates Steve’s body heat into Danny’s fingers as he clutches it tightly. He plops it in Steve’s lap. The impact rouses Steve from a half-doze, and he blinks up at Danny and smiles.

The smile fades as he realizes what’s happened. He cups his hand around the glass and, though he can see it for himself, looks to Danny. “Di’ it break?”

“No, it’s fine, babe.” Danny brushes Steve’s hair back from his forehead. He’s sweating again, but it must be the meds or something because he doesn’t feel feverish. “You okay?”

Steve swallows, and it’s suspiciously thick—with nausea or tears, who knows. Since the surgery there’s been plenty of both.

He shakes his head.

“Mm. Budge, will you?” Clumsily Steve pushes himself upright, and Danny fits himself in between his friend and the arm of the sofa. Steve drapes against his side.

“Sleep a lil’ more, okay?” Danny soothes, and tugs Steve closer. Something solid presses through his t-shirt, something hard and smooth; Steve’s got the paperweight captured tight between his own palm, and the center of Danny’s chest.

What else is there to do? Danny rests his hand on top, helps keep the smooth piece of glass cradled securely, safe from harm.


	4. snippet from season 6

First it’s getting the tree together; after the debacle last year Danny finally caved and got a fake one, but it’s pretty realistic. Big, too. Once that’s up it’s time for lights—and Steve takes a moment to wonder if he’s only here because he’s tall, but even if that’s true, it’s okay. He likes Christmas. Doesn’t go crazy like some people do, and hardly decorates at all for himself, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy the holiday. Or time with Danny.

Time with Danny not spent in the office, or chasing criminals—just the two of them and some cardboard boxes full of shiny things.

Lights are done. The kids are going to help put on the ornaments, so Danny gets them started on the rest of the room. Steve arranges Christmasy knick-knacks on the end tables while Danny does the mantle.

Steve watches as his friend drapes evergreen garlands, then lines up some cards and snowglobes. Then he gets some little plastic hangers, the kind for stockings, and adds one, two, three— four. And okay, yeah, it stings a little to see that Melissa gets her own stocking here.

In another universe, Cath has a stocking at his place. In this universe she’s gone, and he and Lynn didn’t even come _near_ the topic of Christmas together, and Leonard’s not doing so well so Deb’s staying on the mainland, and Mary _seriously can’t afford the tickets every other month, Steve_ , so she’s gonna wait to visit until the next time Deb does, and…

And he’s got a stocking, from when he was a kid. Somewhere in the attic. But it’s not like he’s going to hang his up by itself.

So yeah. Melissa’s stocking hurts a bit.

But he pushes it down, occupies himself with untangling some ornament hooks, and tries not to watch Danny hang the stockings on their hangers. Of course, he looks eventually—

And maybe chokes a little when he does.

The names read Danno, Charlie, Grace.

And _Uncle Steve_.

The choking, luckily, turns into laughter pretty fast. “I have a stocking?”

“Mm?” Danny glances up from a box of tinsel. “Yeah, I got you a stocking.”

“You got me a stocking.”

“I was at the place gettin’ Charlie’s anyway—”

“I have a stocking,” Steve says again, feeling like he probably sounds ridiculous right now but totally not caring. It’s a weird year to debut this, is all. Danny’s been pissing him off even more than usual in recent months and he is absolutely positive the feeling’s mutual—but there it is anyway. Danny got him a stocking.

Danny straightens up and stares him down, one hand on his hip and one cutting sharply through the air. “Yeah, you have a stocking. Quit being such a putz, Steven.”

Steve scrubs his eyes, clearing the moisture before it can coalesce into real tears, but he knows Danny’s seen him go all misty anyway. He doesn’t really care.

He has a stocking. He has a big white stocking with a big red snowflake on it, and _Uncle Steve_ embroidered in loopy cursive across the top. Next to Grace’s, right on the same mantle as Danny’s and Charlie’s.

“Don’t get too excited,” Danny warns, all but wagging a finger. “To be clear, come Christmas morning, this stocking will not contain bullets, grenades—ammunition of any kind. Sparklers included. I may— _may_ —let you bring over Christmas crackers. But that will have to be enough.”

 _It’s enough_ , Steve thinks, but thankfully manages not to say this aloud. Danny rolls his eyes anyway and turns back to the tinsel, giving Steve the opportunity to run a hand under his nose.

“This shit’s a mess,” Danny grumbles, glaring at the sparkly heap. “See if you can work it out for me, huh? If you’re done being gooey over a big sock?”

“I’m not being gooey over a big sock,” Steve says, and it’s true. He’s being gooey over a big sock _with his name on it_ , that his best friend put up on his mantle accompanied by the strong implication that Steve’s invited over for at least a portion of the holiday.

The holiday he assumed he’d be spending alone.

He’s allowed to be, like, a little gooey about that.

Then Danny kicks the box of tinsel and Steve snaps back to Earth and spends the next ten minutes detangling it, coating his pants in tiny glittery strings and his hands with that indefinable shiny-thing smell.

They don’t talk much more after this. Danny’s exhausted, just wants to get everything put up, and Steve’s pretty happy just to be grunted at and directed wordlessly. And he doesn’t push it once they finish. Doesn’t ask if Danny wants to watch a movie or just veg with some beers, even though Steve’s in the mood for company, because it seems increasingly the case that Danny’s not.

That’s okay. Danny needs alone time, he always has, and anyway nothing can change the fact that he hung Steve’s name alongside his own, and his children’s. Like it _belonged_ there.

Like _family_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't see Steve's stocking until season 8 but there's nothing to say it wasn't there earlier. And seriously, you can't tell me he didn't get at least a teeny bit weepy the first time he saw it.


	5. snippet (set whenever)

There’s a face, hovering within his line of vision, but it takes Steve’s addled brain a minute or two to work it out.

He squints.

It’s not Danny. Or Chin or Kono or Lou, but it is somebody he knows—it is a face he recognizes—

“Juh—” his mouth blurs the rest into nothingness; he tries again. “Jer?”

“Hey, Steve,” Jerry says, flashing a tired smile.

Steve blinks a few times, and the world mostly settles: hospital room, looks like Tripler, light out the window puts it at maybe 1700 hours. And sitting in a chair at his bedside: Jerry Ortega.

“Wha’ happened?”

“You took a pretty good knock to the head. Been out a coupla hours. Rest of the team ended up on the north shore goin’ after the rest of the crew, so we figured I’d hang out here.”

Steve almost laughs. Of course Danny wouldn’t have left him to wake up alone in the hospital, not if he could do anything about it. Oh, Danny, Danny, Danny.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Okay,” Steve replies automatically, even though his head is killing him and he feels— _dull_. That’s probably the worst thing about concussions. He can take the pain and the nausea and even the dizziness, but he hates feeling like an unsharpened pencil. Useless and kind of smeary, somehow.

So even though he kind of resents being left back, yeah, it was the right tactical call; he doubts he could think his way through a cross-word right now, let alone a firefight. Still, he doesn’t just want to _lounge_ here—

“Whoa, hey, you’ve gotta stay in bed, commander—”

And that’s probably the other reason the team stationed someone here, although, really, even in this state he could definitely overpower _Jerry_.

Almost definitely. Probably. Actually, come to think of it, moving wasn’t the best idea—

“Ooh, _timber_ ,” Jerry intones, getting a wastebasket under Steve’s chin, just in time for him to throw up what feels like everything he’s eaten for a week.

Damn. He hates puking. And concussion puking is the worst kind because you just want to stay as still as possible, but here you are, using every damn muscle in your body for _heaving_ —

Finally it’s been a minute or two since he’s brought anything up. Jerry gives him a box of tissues, then takes the wastebasket and disappears with it into the bathroom. Over the sound of blowing his own nose, Steve hears the water turn on.

Oh, man. Jerry _really_ wants that badge.

Jerry comes back out a little while later, with a clean wastebasket and a cup of water, and it’s not that Steve’s embarrassed, exactly. Concussions cause nausea; that’s a medical fact. But Jerry literally just cleaned out his puke bucket, and that’s—wow. That’s beyond ‘above and beyond’. And it’s probably just the concussion again, but Steve feels kind of _gooey_ about it. Fond, and grateful.

“No worries, commander,” Jerry says, lightly, handing him the water. He stays standing at his bedside. “Detective Williams kind of told me to expect that.”

“Mm.” Steve takes a couple of sips, until his throat feels soothed enough for speech. “Mother goose.” No, that’s not right. “Mother hen.”

Jerry laughs. “Yeah. He’s a good guy.”

“Wha’ else—” Steve stops to clear his throat. It brings up some acid-tasting phlegm and makes him want to spew again, but he drinks more water and breathes through it. “What else did he say?” Okay, there’s his normal voice.

“Um.” Jerry’s grinning. “There was kinda a list.”

“What was the list?”

Jerry half-laughs, eyes to the ceiling as he ticks the items off on his fingers. With each, that warm feeling for both Danny and Jerry—no, the whole team, really—swells in Steve’s chest.

“Le’see. You’re gonna blow chunks at least once. _Check_. You’re gonna try to get out of bed. _Check_. You’re shitty at having a concussion ‘cause you need constant stimulation—Danny’s words—but pretty much everything’s gonna make you dizzy. So. He suggested cards?” Jerry snorts, catches Steve’s eyes. “Kudos for having a procedure for this, by the way. I guess. He didn’t leave me any cards, though.”

Steve laughs, quietly.

“He said I’ll know it’s really bad if you keep asking the same question over and over, and you haven’t been, so that’s good. And above all else, he said, try to convince you to sleep.”

“Yeah, I won’t fight you on that one, Jer.”

“That’s cool. He said you would.”

“I’d fight him on it. Bu’ I won’t fight you.” Steve yawns a little. “’sthat all he said?”

“Well.”

“Mm?”

“I think he was just teasing me.”

“Why?”

“He said you might get kinda anxious, and if you did—I should hold your hand?”

Maybe it’s Steve’s imagination, but Jerry seems to have gone a little pink now.

“Danny, _Danny_. Yeah, he was teasin’ you, Jer. ‘m not anxious. I know I’m safe.”

And, um—did he say that last part aloud? Oops.

Jerry half-laughs again, and before Steve can tell him not to bother, collects all the used tissues from Steve’s lap and throws them away. Then he takes the water from Steve’s hand, before it can spill. “You want any more right now?”

“Mm. Nah.”

“Okay. Lemme know if you do. Maybe sleep now, I guess, commander?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, and lets his eyes slip shut. Distantly he hears the chair squeak as Jerry settles back into it, close at hand.

And yeah, _safe_ just about covers it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally headcanon that Jerry is pan* and has a _massive_ crush on Steve. He's never mentioned it, of course, and he's not even really out to the team. And yet everybody, Steve included, knows about it. All that probably came out here, although I did intend this as a friendship piece :)
> 
> *panromantic asexual, to be precise


	6. tag to 8x19

“We did it, Dad,” he says. But even as he gets the words out, it doesn’t feel like enough. Not even close. So he gets the truck going, and drives.

He finds Danny sitting on a countertop, eating cheese, laptop blasting some DIY youtube video. Good. Steve’s not in the headspace for civility. He’s in the headspace for plopping butt-first onto the dusty floor and reaching up for cheese with a wordless grunt.

Danny puts a little hunk in his hand. Steve chews slowly but mostly without tasting, and a few more pieces come and go in the same manner before finally the video ends and the kitchen goes quiet. Then Steve feels Danny peering down.

“What, uh,” he mutters, and Steve looks up to see Danny’s finger tracing the air around his own neck. Right; Steve’s still wearing the lei. He takes it off and drapes it over his knees, then lets his head fall back against the side of the counter.

“What’s up?” Danny asks. His voice isn’t soft but his tone is tempered by the way he swings his legs over the edge of the countertop, uses one foot to nudge Steve’s arm.

“Long day. Please tell me you weren’t watching youtube videos trying to learn how to fix bad wiring.”

“You’ve been learning wine pairing from ‘em,” Danny shoots back. “I figure, you becoming civilized, that’s about as likely as me becoming an electrician, so. What’s there to lose?”

“Your eyebrows,” Steve replies, and earns a somewhat less gentle foot-to-arm tap from that.

“Okay, Mister Michelin.” He passes Steve another bit of cheese. “What goes with this?”

“What kind is it?”

“No, no cheating. Any mook can memorize a list. Gimme that palate of yours.”

So Steve focuses this time; moves the cheese thoughtfully around his mouth and tries to taste it on every part of his tongue. It’s hard and salty, and musty without being overly funky. “Chianti?” he guesses, after he’s finally swallowed.

Danny makes a noise that sounds unexpectedly like approval.

“’s the pecorino romano I’ve been thinkin’ about for the cacio e pepe. So we’ll need to try it in the final dish before we finalize any recommendations. Honestly though, I kinda like it for the cheese plate, too—unless maybe it’s a bit too overwhelming? I dunno. I’ve always really liked pecorino. And you, Steven, are not listening to a word of this, are you?”

“I’m listening,” Steve sighs. “Chianti’s a maybe; we’ve gotta have it with the final dish first, though. You like it for the cheese plate but maybe it’s too strong.”

“Is this about Davis?” Danny asks, voice quieting down. Steve doesn’t reply, and before he knows it Danny has slid down the counter and is leaning beside him; he lets his head incline a little in his friend’s direction. Can’t help but sigh again.

“Noelani took the lead on contacting the families,” he says, after a minute. “A lot of ‘em must still be local, because pretty might right after we finished booking him—a whole big bunch of ‘em came in.”

“To thank you.”

“Yeah. Not that I did much. ‘s my dad that deserves the credit.”

“Is that why you’re upset?”

“I’m not upset, Danny.” He’s got one of the leaves of his lei between his thumb and forefinger, and he smooths its surface as he speaks.

“You kidding me? How— how long have I known you? You’re sighing, you’re fiddling with things, and you’re sitting on the floor. What’s wrong?”

Steve starts to sigh, then stops himself, just to prove Danny a tiny bit wrong. “I dunno.”

“You missin’ your dad?”

Steve feels his lips curve, just a little. “I’m always missing my dad.”

“Fine, okay, that was a stupid question. I will, uh. I’ll give you that one.”

“It wasn’t a stupid question. Yeah, I’m missin’ him more than usual right now. I know he’d be happy justice was finally served. I wish he could see it. I wish he could’ve been the one to do it.”

“It got done,” Danny says, and bumps their shoulders lightly.

“Yeah. I know. I dunno, man, it’s got me thinkin’ about a lot of things. There’s, like, too much in my head right now.”

“Well, pick one.”

Steve lets the request hang for a minute, just watching Danny reach back up and feel around the counter for the cheese and knife. He finds it, cuts himself a piece, and pops it in his mouth.

“Davis served in Vietnam. He said—he blamed the war for his becoming a hitman. At least, civilian reaction to it. And the thing is—yeah, it really must have sucked. To fight for your country then come back and—and basically hear that the people you were protecting didn’t want your protection. But my dad served in Vietnam. Hell, there’s plenty of people who didn’t—who don’t—think we should be in the Middle East right now. You know?”

“Yeah, I know. You’re lookin’ at one.” And he passes Steve a crumbly slice of cheese that Steve balances on his knee instead of eating.

“I didn’t know that.”

Danny sighs. “Can we not make that a thing, please? I think we’re both too tired to have a thing right now.”

Truth be told that hurts a little, but everything sort of hurts tonight—nothing badly, nothing more than the rest, but Steve feels wrung by some kind of whole-body, whole-soul aching. He rubs his forehead a little. “Well, whatever anybody thinks of it, I didn’t come back and start workin’ for the syndicate. Neither did my dad. I guess it just bothered me that he’d take that—he’d take that thing we have in common and—and make it something to not be proud of.”

“He didn’t make it anything, Steve. His opinion of his experiences, they don’t change your own opinion of yours.”

“Right. But he just—he disrespected my dad, you know? In so many ways, but that was just one more, and it—pisses me off.”

“Was it really disrespect, though? If it was, would he really have come to you with this?”

“Yeah. I dunno.” The light coming in from the front of the house is growing dimmer by the second, and Steve thinks absently that if they’re going to sit there all too much longer, they should probably get one of the lanterns. Since the lights can’t be trusted, and all.

“I really do wish my dad could’ve caught him, though. Do you ever—I mean, sometimes I think—one of the hardest things about losing somebody is knowing that they didn’t get to do everything they wanted to do. I hate thinking that my dad died with unfinished business.” Steve snorts. “Jeez, Danny, he died with a lot of unfinished business, but, you know.”

“You don’t appreciate the reminder?”

“Right.”

“So I guess my next question is, did you come here to distract yourself with a restaurant-y task? Or just because you wanted company?”

Steve takes a slow breath, tries not to bristle at being forced to say it. “Company, I guess.”

“Okay. Because it seems to me like we have both had productive days and as much as I know that we really should get to work on that list of violations, all I really want to do now is go home, where I indeed have a bottle of Chianti, and down it with the rest of this cheese. Whaddya say?”

“Yeah.”

“Text mini-SEAL to feed Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Steve says again. Danny steals and eats the cheese still perched on Steve’s knee, then gets them both to their feet. Then he frowns, and Steve’s honestly not sure what about his expression or his mannerisms prompts Danny’s next words.

“ _Babe_. This one really wore you down, huh?”

Steve takes a slow breath. “Kinda did, yeah.”

“It happens.”

“Honestly I think it just comes down to—I wish it coulda been my dad, meeting those families today. This all—it’s his, y’know?” The lei’s fallen to the floor and Steve picks it up and proffers it, a little awkwardly. “This is his.”

“Well, let’s swing by before work tomorrow and bring it to him, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you’d like to.”

He’s made it sound so simple, is all, and that combined with his hand now resting on Steve’s arm is finally enough to ease the tension in Steve’s neck and shoulders. “That’s perfect. Thanks, Danno.”

“No worries, babe. Hey, let’s get out of here before the walls spontaneously combust, okay?”

“’kay,” Steve murmurs. With the easing of tension has come an onslaught of exhaustion, as is so often the case nowadays. Danny seems to catch this.

“You good to drive?”

It’s a real question, even if it shouldn’t be, so Steve tries not to smirk. “I’m good to drive, buddy.” Though possibly not good for anything afterwards, besides drinking wine and falling asleep on Danny’s sofa.

Danny accepts this, and leads them out with his hand still on Steve’s arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anybody can protest that pecorino Romano is not the kind of cheese you snack on... have you ever tried? Because you’re missing out :)


End file.
